A Matter of Questions
by Lawson227
Summary: After their return from Salem, Lucy is bothered by a number of nagging questions, but only one drives her to seek out Garcia Flynn. What she learns may change...everything. (I blame the writers. Damn them.)


**AN:** I have been a dedicated Wyatt/Lucy shipper since Day 1. However, since the writers are being evil, as good writers should be, and given the chemistry between Garcia and Lucy, especially in The Salem Witch Hunt, was off the charts, I just had to play. Especially since this scene started rattling around in my head and wouldn't let go, so...here we are.

I know Flynn's a dumpster fire and I know Wyatt/Lucy is in all likelihood endgame, but I seriously just could not help myself.

Obviously, I own NOTHING Timeless other than the ideas that don't let me sleep.

* * *

Even at their most generous, no one would ever confuse the bunker for luxury accommodations. In fact, take out the sophisticated computer equipment and it really wasn't that far off from the WWI medical camp where they'd encountered Marie and Irène Curie. However, a few creature comforts had found their way to their hideaway—mostly due to Connor Mason's insistence that while they might be confined to their present quarters, there was no reason they had to live like complete heathens. Hence a truly excellent coffeemaker in the galley and the isolated part of the bunker where Lucy was currently headed.

She knew she'd find him slouched deep in the embrace of the large leather chair Connor had somehow had finagled down the narrow entry and installed in the former storage nook-turned-alcove, book in one hand, mug of coffee in another. She knew that's where she'd find him because given her druthers and five seconds to actually _breathe_ , it's precisely where she'd be, book and coffee included. A rare precious oasis of privacy in this godforsaken underground warren.

Still—godforsaken or not, it beat the hell out of the six weeks she'd spent with Rittenhouse under Emma's malevolent eye.

The telltale aroma of fresh coffee alerted her to his presence even before she fully turned the corner into what had evolved into their makeshift library. She breathed a sigh of relief as she took note of the chair's position, angled away from the approach, the high back providing a barrier of sorts and hiding her approach.

Wyatt would never do that, she realized with a start. He'd absolutely position the chair so as to spot all possible incoming and be ready to defend his position if necessary. That Flynn felt no such need suggested he either felt exceedingly comfortable in the bunker's confines—or exceedingly comfortable in the knowledge that he could take care of any potential threat regardless of whether or not he saw them approaching.

Lucy strongly suspected the latter.

Which allowed him the freedom to seek any way possible by which to create a measure of privacy.

Of peace.

An odd term to use, considering the man, but there it was. He was carving out a tiny sliver of peace in their increasingly chaotic lives. Doing the same thing she would—losing himself in a book. She felt a smile, unbidden, tug at the corners of her mouth. Quite possibly the only other person she'd ever encountered who read as much, if not more, than she did.

Her smile faded.

She should leave him be. Allow him this rare moment.

Turn and flee, before he knew she was even there.

After all, she didn't really want to do this. Except she did.

Even if she would undoubtedly make an ass of herself.

Because it's what she did.

But God knows, she'd done _that_ before and survived.

But this went beyond making an ass of herself. This went to seeking a peace of her own. The very reason she'd sought him out in the first place, despite all her very legitimate misgivings. Because she had all these maddening questions that had bedeviled her since their return from Salem—and if she didn't ask now, it would only get worse. With the questions and her imagined answers to them multiplying and spawning more questions and and more imagined answers, each worse than the last, leaving her tangled in a web of increasing anxiety. And the more anxious she got, the more she was liable to say something fundamentally idiotic.

To _do_ something fundamentally idiotic.

And if there was anything she was tired of, it was of feeling like a helpless idiot.

Check that. She was tired of feeling helpless.

She'd had enough of that for three lifetimes, thank you.

Well.

No one could accuse her of lacking in self-awareness. Her arm chose that exact moment to throb, as if in agreement. Or mocking. It was a tossup, really.

"Either ask what you came here for or leave. Your hovering is…annoying."

Shocked out of her own head, she started then winced as her still-tender arm made contact with the corner of the wall. Still, though, she considered turning tail and running. Or mumbling something about not having meant to interrupt. Or needing a book. Anything but saying what she'd actually come to say.

For all he knew, it wasn't even her, given he hadn't even turned, dark head still bent over his book.

"Lucy—"

So much for that theory.

"Why did you call me your wife?"

Or she could, you know, _ask_. Which, dear God, she just had.

She thought.

At least, she'd blurted it out in her own head. She _thought_ she'd said it out loud, but judging by his reaction or lack thereof—still ostensibly absorbed in whatever he was reading—maybe she hadn't actually said anything out loud and she could beat a hasty retreat.

So why was she lingering, _hovering_ , watching him continue to read?

Because she was an _idiot_ , that's why.

It's just…he was sitting there in such a lazy, relaxed position—long legs stretched out before him, one ankle casually crossed over the other—it all but conjured a scene so vivid, she felt its ache deep in the pit of her stomach. A scene of deep, comfortable chairs and dark wood shelves lined with well-loved leather-bound volumes, that marvelous, musty old book smell combining with lemon oil and fragrant woodsmoke from a merrily crackling fire and of course, his ever-present coffee. Or a brandy. Perhaps a hint of crisp fall air clinging to him, since he would have just returned from a brisk walk and clearly, her fifteen-year-old self's Austen fixation hadn't fully let go and what the hell was the _matter_ with her?

"It was convenient."

She blinked, the vision of her cozy dream library fading, supplanted by the reality of the cramped, damp bunker. He had yet to turn to face her, however, which made continuing the conversation easier. Sort of.

"It would have been equally convenient to call me a servant, like you did Rufus." As always, she felt a sharp twinge of guilt, thinking of how many times they'd had to fall back on that excuse for him.

"Anyone taking a single look at you and believing you're a servant would be too stupid to bother with. Ergo, not the people we're generally looking to deal with." His head remain bent over his book as he replied, his tone bored and ever-so-slightly mocking in that way that tended to set her teeth on edge. "Not to mention, the moment you opened your mouth to speak would give up the game. No…you could never pass as a servant."

"Then your sister. You could have just as easily said I was your sister."

 _Now_ he finally put the book down, although he remained turned away from her, head at an angle that suggested he would be staring contemplatively out a window.

If they had windows that is.

"What does it matter, Lucy?"

The mocking lilt had left his voice, although it maintained its ever-present edge.

"It's…it's just…I don't _know._ Exasperation had her voice rising to a level just shy of shrill. She could almost hear her mother's voice, scolding her as a child— _Control, Lucy. Control. No one will take you seriously as a historian if you have to resort to shrieking to make yourself heard_.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself she added, "It's just…it seemed…odd." One hand rose to rub at the wound on her arm which had begun to throb again as if to chide her for the lameness of her response.

Because she did know. She _did_.

It had to do with each silent exchange they'd had on this journey, easily communicating without depending on words that could so easily be misconstrued. It had to do with the sinking feeling of betrayal, of _oh dear God, not again_ she'd felt when he charged out the tavern window, leaving her and Rufus to the mercy of an enraged Salem townsfolk. A betrayal compounded by her mother's jail visit and the absolute certainty Lucy had felt that yes, she would rather hang than join Rittenhouse and the bleak certainty that while she would be surrounded with others of the accused, she very well might die as alone as it was possible to on this day in 1692.

It had to do with the relief she'd felt at the first crack of gunfire, knowing it was him even before she spotted him behind that tree, his expression a mask of fierce concentration as he aimed at and killed Judge Hathorne before the crazed magistrate could finish her off.

It had to do with his reassurances in the Lifeboat—that she was nothing like her mother and while yes, she knew that, it still had provided something of a jolt when he said it, his voice impossibly soft and all the more certain for it. He wasn't just saying it. He _knew_. Likely because of her journal, which was yet another thing she'd have to ask him about, but not now. But soon.

It had to do with how he'd so carefully buckled her into her seat when her injured arm prevented her from doing so. A familiar experience, and yet not. The loss of Wyatt buckling her in on the voyage to Salem had hit her acutely. It was a loss she felt anew when Flynn had reached to buckle her in, causing her to protest. But he'd pinned her in place with those piercing eyes, that faint mocking light in them as if he knew exactly why she objected.

It had to do with stepping from the Lifeboat and immediately confronting Wyatt's haunted blue gaze. And looking past him to see the newcomer to their midst, standing with a shellshocked expression, as if her life had just been turned upside down. And how, just as her knees had started to buckle at the realization that yes, Jessica was real, feeling the substantial bulk and warmth of Flynn behind her, his hand a supportive presence at her back.

But perhaps it most of all had to do with how Wyatt, initially determined to assist her down the stairs despite that glance back over his shoulder at his wife, had immediately backed down at Flynn's appearance and unquestionably possessive demeanor as he'd assisted Lucy himself.

She should have been outraged. Instead, she was just immeasurably weary. And in pain. And wanted to understand nothing more than _why_?

Admittedly, the big cosmic why of the turns her life had taken in the past year were kind of difficult to tackle with one simple question. But this question, at least, she could attempt to get an answer to.

"Not odd," she finally amended. "Just…unexpected, I guess."

She watched as the hand holding his mug rose and his dark head tilted back. It was only after the last of his coffee had been drained that he stood and _finally_ faced her. Carefully, he placed the book he'd been reading facedown on the small table beside the chair. He met her gaze for a long moment, his expression an inscrutable mask.

"It really shouldn't be that unexpected if you think about it. As I already explained, no one would ever mistake you for a servant and as for claiming you as my sister—"

He moved with the lazy cat's grace she'd come to associate with him and paused beside her, eyes glittering with a dangerous green light. One corner of his finely-shaped mouth twitched as he gazed down at her, the heat of his body coming at her from the front less comforting and more… encompassing.

Lowering his head to hers he very softly said, "If I'd claimed you as my sister we would both have immediately been tossed in that stinking jail—you as a witch and me as the vilest of moral offenders."

A rush of cool air cooled suddenly heated cheeks as he moved past, pausing only to give her a gentle push in the direction of the chair.

"Sit. I suspect these moments of no immediate earth-shattering crises will grow fewer and more far between so take advantage while you can. I'll bring some tea. And you should be due for pain meds about now. Especially considering how you keep rubbing at your arm."

An instant later, he'd disappeared around the corner, the echo of his footsteps fading as he headed, presumably to the galley.

Stunned and more than a bit bemused, she eased down into the chair, the leather still warm and shaped to his much larger frame. She allowed herself to sink further down into the cushions, firmly pushing away any feelings she might be experiencing that it was not unlike being cradled by him. In an attempt to distract herself, she kicked off her shoes and reached for the book he'd left carefully marked to the last page he'd read. Tucking her feet beneath her, she flipped it over, shaking her head as she read the title.

 _Much Ado About Nothing_

That Flynn read Shakespeare didn't come as any kind of a surprise.

That it was _Much Ado_?

 _That_ was the real surprise. She would have guessed _Hamlet_ or _Othello_ before the classic comedy. Even _Henry V_ with its themes of a once lighthearted young man turned ruthless warrior would have felt more logical. _Much Ado,_ however, begged a multitude of questions.

She sighed, renewed heat flooding her face accompanied by an odd disquieting tingle at the base of her spine. More questions to add to her ever-growing list of questions with respect to Garcia Flynn. For the moment, though, she'd have to content herself with the answers, unsettling though they were, she'd received to the one question she'd allowed herself to air.

Lifting the book to her nose, she closed her eyes and breathed deep of old books, leather, lemon oil, and coffee. Comforted, as ever, by the sense of familiarity enveloping her, she settled herself more fully in the chair and opened to the page he'd left marked, her breath catching as she read:

 ** _BENEDICK_**

 _I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is_

 _not that strange?_

 ** _BEATRICE_**

 _As strange as the thing I know not. It were as_

 _possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as_

 _you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not;_

 _"…_ I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing," she murmured quietly.

"By my sword, sweet Beatrice, thou lovest me."

Startled by the sound of his lightly accented voice delivering the next line with a poignant softness with which she was thoroughly unaccustomed, she glanced up to find him standing before her, a steaming mug of tea in one hand, a pair of painkillers in the other.

"Do not swear, and eat it." Her heart thudded painfully against her chest as she recited Beatrice's response.

"I will swear by it that you love me," he responded softly as he exchanged the book for the mug and placed the pills in her outstretched hand that trembled only a little. "And I will make him eat it that says I love not you."

He shook open the blanket he'd carried in folded over one arm, and draped it over her before setting the book back in her lap. The entire time, his gaze never left hers, one eyebrow cocked as if daring her—

A quick glance down at the page and she lifted her gaze once more to meet his. "Will you not eat your word?" she retorted a slight challenge in her tone.

A rare full-blown smile crossed his face. "Perhaps that is the question."

"Wrong play," she said softly.

"Take your pills," he replied, choosing to ignore her observation. "And try to catch a nap. You need all the rest you can get. And I'll say this for Mason—he has good taste in chairs."

He waited only until he was satisfied she'd swallowed the pills before disappearing back into the bunker's shadows. She had the sense, however, he wasn't far. That he meant it when he said he wanted her to get rest. Wrapping the blanket more securely about herself, she settled once more into the chair and lifted the book, picking up where they'd left off.

 ** _BENEDICK_**

 _With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest_

 _I love thee._

The words blurred as her eyes grew heavier, the combination of stress, exhaustion, and powerful pain medication kicking in rather faster than she would have expected.

No matter. She knew how the story ended.

Only time would tell how her story ended.

And with whom.


End file.
